


Flying Cars

by gongjins



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Canonical Character Death, M/M, PTSD, Period Typical Homophobia, Post-War, Pre-War, World War II, canonical character trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 04:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4333679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gongjins/pseuds/gongjins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here’s a thing nobody told anybody about Howard Stark: He’s got a thing for soldiers. He’s got a thing for riding them hard, undoing them against whatever he’s got. And Stark has a lot of toys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flying Cars

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags! Also, I don't know where this came from, but I really like this pair together.

Bucky’s got a thing for technology and science. Always has had it, always will. If he’d gone on in school he coulda’ gone on to do some wonderful things. As it was he was still smart as a whip when it came to mechanics. Boy was a natural. Laughed when Stark’s car flew -- fuckin’ flew, Steve! -- before it gave out. Howard Stark was a genius, sure, but if you’d give Bucky half a chance, he could’ve taken it apart and put it back together. It woulda’ worked, after that, no doubt. 

When Steve bails on him to try his luck at another recruitment center, Bucky’s not going to waste his last night on American soil arguing with the stubborn mule. Some wars he knows he can win and some he knows he can’t. This is one of those things -- they ain’t going to win either one and Bucky’s picking his battles tonight. He wraps an arm around the waist of each dame -- Bonnie and Connie, he thinks. Connie with the golden hair like Steve’s and Bonnie with the brown. Both are gorgeous and adorable, and Bucky’s going to dance his army regulation boots off.

Bucky barely notices the security detail or the English man in the corner when he lets Bonnie and Connie go ahead of him into the door. They’ve got a hand each and Bucky’s heart’s hammering -- he’s gonna take whatever this night will give him. You never know with soldiers who go to war, if you’ll see them again. For all Bucky knows he’ll never be home again. 

It takes him a little while to realize why the place is so packed. It’s hard to hear anybody under the sound of the music in his ears -- the band is live and the woman singing has a voice husky and beautiful. But then Connie curls against him after he reels her back in and she wraps an arm around his neck to lean in and whisper. Her breath puffs against his neck, her lips flicker on his ear. “Howard Stark’s dancin’ with Bonnie!” 

She pulls back with wide eyes and jerks her chin in their direction. He glances over her shoulder when he spins her around and sure enough -- so she is. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says it with a laugh. “Lets go reclaim our lost lady.” 

Howard’s got a thing for dames. The world knows this is true -- he don’t bother to hide it. Bonnie’s not a loose girl, and neither is Connie. Both of them are popular and both are kind but not kind enough to know when they’re being stickled. Sure, Bucky can show them a good time, but he also knows when he can’t give them the time of their life. Stark’s got fame and fortune but he makes an object out of good girls and that’s not hearsay, that’s as much of a fact as leaves turning in fall. 

The first thing Bucky learns about Howard Stark when they meet on the same level is just how young he looks. He knows from the papers that Stark’s the same age as him but maybe it’s the brilliance, or the way he pulled himself up out of nothing, or maybe it’s just cameras and make up and flash and bang, or it could just be the mustache, but he’s never exactly thought of them as such. Here though, with that smirk and those gleaming eyes, he can see it. He’s handsome here, even when his eyes flick over Bucky and Connie together and come back to Bucky, trailing down in a look so heated and husky that it’s unmistakable, for all it’s gone in a flash.

Jesus God, Bucky Barnes was going to hell in a handbasket for this. 

“Mr. Stark,” he says, holding out his hand with a smirk. “I think you’ve found our third party.” 

Stark laughs into Bonnie’s hair, but reaches out a hand to shake. It’s stronger than he thought it’d be. “That right? Well, y’know what they say, Sergeant Barnes. Three’s a crowd.” 

Here Bucky starts a little because he forgot that beyond Stark’s glib tongue there’s a man with sharp eyes and a bit of genius. The man doesn’t make you forget it but it’s easy to when you see him in a club no matter if you just saw him with flying car prototypes just an hour or two before.

Up close he’s slightly shorter than him, has got a red flush to his cheeks and that mustache hides a lot, but doesn’t quite hide the way he holds himself like he’s both king of the world and looking for a fight. Bucky recognises that. Has seen it in every man. It’s hard to remember that Howard Stark got where he is by good luck, hard work, and genius, but there it is. 

Bucky smirks at him, classic and looping an arm around Connie’s waist. “And four’s a party.” He winks, because he’s going away tomorrow. Steve’s not here and he’s getting on a boat to die and so, why not? 

He dances with Connie, then Bonnie, and then about twelve other gals. It’s not until his feet are aching and the band is slowing down that he ends up in Howard Stark’s calloused hands. The callouses surprise him at first. Besides his own scarred and often aching fingers, he didn’t think he’d feel anything but baby soft skin from Stark. But no, he’s got callouses and he’s got scars too. 

Bucky grins at him when their bodies press together from crowd. He falls into the beat immediately, Hand on his hip and swinging him around. When Stark wrestles control from him on the second spin he falls into line because he’s a soldier, and that’s what he does. He drops his hat and spins on his heel. He doesn’t know where Bonnie or Connie are but before he can look out for them, Stark has wheeled him right out a side door and whisked him into a car.

Stark’s lips are on him, undoing his uniform with experienced fingers. Bucky feels the hum of the engine as the driver pulls out, but his lap is full of Howard fuckin’ Stark, so that’s that, he supposes. Stark’s thighs are warm on his, his lips on his are dry and insistent. He nips his bottom lip, and when Bucky slips forward a little when the car tips to a stop at a corner, he creeps forward so he’s right on top of his hard dick. 

“Jesus,” Bucky says, hips grinding upwards and head falling back against the seat. He gets a glimpse of tinted windows and he can see their reflections. There’s not enough skin between them, is his incoherent thought.

Here’s a thing nobody told anybody about Howard Stark: He’s got a thing for soldiers. He’s got a thing for riding them hard, undoing them against whatever he’s got. And Stark has a lot of toys. When the car comes to a stop he pulls Bucky out and into a house larger than a city block in Brooklyn. Bucky falls in, and his military training keeps him from falling face first to the floor. Stark pushes him against the wall hard enough to slam, hard enough to leave a bruise that’ll ache for a while. Soldiers don’t talk about this. Stark doesn’t talk about it. Bucky’s sure there’s a good amount of money in being pressed to keep quiet about it. But Bucky’s too busy letting himself be crushed against the wall and giving back as good as he gets. Stark’s got hips like you wouldn’t believe, when he finally gets them uncovered, when he pulls that shirt over his head and slips the suspenders down. They’re flexible under his hands. His skin there is baby smooth under the callouses of Bucky’s hands. 

He’s got a mouth full of sin too, and the mustache tickles against his top lip, scrapes his skin raw red. 

“Jesus,” he says against Stark’s lip. “Jesus.” 

He feels Stark smirk against his skin, the bastard.

“What’s the matter, Sarg.? Need to show some skin?” Because Howard would know what he does to a person, the bastard. Of course he would. 

Bucky feels hot as he did on the African campaign under his uniform. He pushes Stark against the wall so he can strip the coat off. Howard’s hair’s fallen in front of his face a little from when Bucky ran his fingers through it. The grease in it coated the insides of his fingers. His hands are quick and clever when they unbutton Bucky’s shirt, pulling it back over his shoulders and sliding the suspenders off too. Coat and shirt together fall to the floor. Bucky pulls the undershirt over his head. His dog tags smack against his neck, slipping behind him. They’re cold against his bare skin the way Stark’s mouth is hot on Bucky’s chest, kissing his way down his collarbone and over his heart, down his chest and abs. Bucky’s breath shudders. He bites down on a moan and the way his body curls when Stark hits a sensitive spot.

This, he thinks, when Stark fondles his cock through his trousers, is the best goddamned day of his life. 

“Yeah?” Stark asks, grinning up at him. Hands on Bucky’s waist keep him from grinding right into that shit-eating look. Stark is flushed and wearing too many clothes and Bucky can’t entirely tell when he unravelled enough to keep from speaking out loud when he should be quiet. 

Then he takes him in his mouth, wet and warm and hot and there’s a hand caressing his balls.

“Jesus, fuck,” he groans, doesn’t even bother to hide the way his hips flex, sending him cascading forward into Stark’s mouth. Bucky hasn’t really done this much before but he’s done it enough to know that Stark’s either a natural, a genius, or has had a lot of practice with it. Or all of the above. 

“Finest fellatio this side of France, if I do say so myself,” Howard Stark says with his mouth still full. Bucky groans but just because he’s out of his mind that don’t mean he can’t snark. 

“Don’t flatter yourself." His fingers clench in Stark’s hair, messing it up from it’s famous sheen. “I’m not feeling enough of that to be true.” 

Stark’s laughter puffs against him and it’s not fair, at all, how the last coherent thought he has before he goes out is how that mustache feels against his skin.

\--

Stark doesn’t do morning afters, by the way. Except he does, in a way. Stark kisses him goodbye with all he’s worth in the morning. He smells like coffee and tastes like a cigar, and somehow the tastes don’t mix unpleasantly, even when they’re in Bucky’s mouth for hours after he’s out to sea with the others. He waves goodbye to his mom and his sisters, and smiles almost whimsically as they push out and bid New York City and all it’s foul smells goodbye. 

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen, but he has to assume -- like all soldiers -- that he’s not going to come back.

\--

He’s smoking on top of a sleek red car. He’s a soldier, and that’s not an excuse but he’s been through a lot. There’s nobody around to see him here, flicking a lighter on and off again. London’s not really quiet, but it smells like rain and musty in a way that New York never really did, and he can hear soldiers shouting about from the bar he’s come from. Steve’s in there laughing with the fine woman in red--his new partner--his right partner, and the other fine gents in their new detail are there too. And Bucky's not because, well. He’s just signed his life away again. Because, why not get out and breathe a little. 

Bucky Barnes has bruises and scars all over his body and while they sure look old, they’re fresh. He knows they are. He remembers when they happened and he can’t drink to forget. Same way the flash of nicotine only lasts a minute, the same way he’s fucked whenever he closes his eyes. The owner of a sleek, red, American car in London doesn’t really bug him for more than a second. 

Maybe he knew who it belonged to. Maybe he’s just kidding himself. Either way, there’s no mistaking the gentle disaster that is Howard Stark stepping out of a building with his hands in his pockets. His tie is skewed, his mustache ruffled, and he either looks like he just got laid really well or he just built something new. 

Either way he meanders forward with that careless way of his. Bucky watches him with eyes in shadow, leaning casually along the length of the hood. He’s got a cigarette in his mouth and he takes a drag before he pulls it away. Looks Stark in the eye when he blows smoke out. 

“Hey, Sarg.” Stark says, a half smile curling one lip. Bucky thinks he may have seen him a couple times since he got back. Steve says he dropped him in the middle of Nazi Germany for them -- him. “Want to go for a ride?”

Bucky smirks. He hops off the hood and stamps the cigarette with his heel before swinging inside the passenger side. “Where to, boss?” 

This time, when Stark finally parks them in a field somewhere outside London when the sky is clear and crickets are making a racket. The stars are immense overhead and it’s peaceful. Bucky gets him off against the sleek, red car. When Howard tries to touch him, he shakes his head. 

“No, I’m gonna take care of you,” he mumbles against his navel when he falls to his aching knees. He kisses his thighs and crooks his fingers against his hips. Stark bites his tie to muffle the sounds. He presses his fingers against Bucky’s skull to warn him before he comes but Bucky swallows him down. He’s tasted worse things than this, and he’s warm for the first time since before Zola had him in his hands. 

\--

They see each other whenever the Commandos get pulled back to London. Though it ain’t all that much, really. Maybe a handful of times, but it always ends up with Bucky in the morning, sore and feeling alright, and tinkering with toys. Howard was sleeping like a baby and Bucky got an hour, maybe two. Enough for him to function, enough with coffee. 

He’s wearing his trousers and his undershirt but his suspenders are down around his shoulders. He’s got car parts all around him and oil slicking his skin black. 

“C’mon, baby doll,” he murmurs to it, sweet talking like only he can. He puts the engine back together the baby purrs. It hums when he turns the key and shifts the gears to fly there in the garage. When it lifts, it sings. It’s not going to fly but at least it hovers, and Bucky’s grinning ear to ear when Stark stumbles out in his briefs and drops the coffee he’s carrying. 

“Barnes,” Howard says when Bucky lands it and gets out smugly, leaning against the door. “Barnes, I could kiss ya’.” 

Bucky raises his eyebrows, bites his lip. He shrugs, a flush dusting his cheeks. “C’mon, pal. It ain’t no big thing.” 

\--

When the driver of the little red car sees the soldier standing in the center of the road the breaks squeal. The car gives a jolt as the charges he’d planted there snapped the breaklines. He watches, impassive, as it flies past him on the road and flipped over the curve. It flips again when it hits the ground with a momentous crunch, and then comes to a stop when the trees stop it. 

The soldier steps after it, checking for traces of himself with an experienced eye. Metal fingers are almost tender on the door, but he has to pull it off with strength because the flipping sealed it to the door. It’s fine if you need to, his handler had said. Just make sure he sees your face. 

The neck of the woman in the passenger seat is at an angle that suggests no chance of survival. It was instant, that one. The whiplash would have done her in. The soldier isn’t supposed to care about that, but he thinks of it anyway, and purses his lips when he glances from her to the one who’s still alive.

If he had touched his fingers to that neck he’d feel a pulse. He knows this, the same way he knows the mustache. He pulls out the light from his pocket and flicks it on. His skin crawls when he shines it on his own face, exposing his features to the man. 

The man gives a shuddering breath that’s thick with blood. His eyes widen, and when he coughs red creeps down his cheek. “Barnes,” he says. A ghost of a whisper with a distinctive accent even so. “Jesus. J-Jesus Christ."

The soldier stares at him impassively, though his pulse is quick and there’s a thickness in his throat. He flicks off the light with hands that have not trembled in ages but fumble now. He cannot shoot like this, so he puts a hand to the target’s throat. But memories flicker in his head of that skin and that mustache much younger, lined with a coppery tint instead of a peppery one. He yanks it back like he’s been burned. His combat effectiveness compromised, he watches helplessly, instead, not sure how to speak or what to say or what to do.

When the driver passes, he pulls his head out of the car and takes a deep breath. It tastes like ash, and the passing thought is of how worse ash tastes as an aftertaste than anything else Howard Stark ever gave him. 


End file.
